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Somehow I know it will not let me down. Only when it's gone..then for sure it will let me down..

Nevertheless I wanted to share with you..whoever is reading this ..what kind of wine I have and why :)

So let's start with the why.

Some people drink to forget, others to remember. Most people drink to have a good time. According to a new study, people who drink wine in moderation may actually suffer from lower rates of depression. What does moderate mean? Who cares? Just drink it until you feel that you will feel depressed. Then go take a nap. I love British scientists.

While I did my research about why do people drink wine I found this interesting question:

This week the Poets & Writers "writers' prompt" post suggested composing an ode, and mentioned Neruda's odes to odd objects, which I was not familiar with. Here is the delightful "Ode to the Artichoke." (Note: Below I am using the text from a translation given on the versedaily website, but the link in the sentence before this one is to a site that offers the original Spanish and an English translation, together.)

What do you think?

Ode to the Artichoke

The tender-hearted upright artichoke girded itself as a warrior, constructed a small dome, to keep itself waterproof within its scales. At its side crazy vegetables ruffled up in cat-tails and tendrils, bulbs on the march; underground slept the red-whiskered carrot, the vineyard withered the shoots wine once rose through, the cabbage devoted itself to trying on skirts, oregano scented the world, and right there in the garden the meek artichoke, girded for battle, burnished as a grenade, haughty, and then one day it was into the grand willow basket with the others and off to the market it marched to fulfill its dream: the militia! In columns never more martial than at the fair, men in their white shirts among the vegetables became field marshals of the artichokes, the closed ranks, the voices of command, and the sudden detonation of ... a fumbled cashbox, but then comes Maria with her basket, who fearlessly picks out an artichoke, looking at it, examining it against the light as if it were an egg, she buys it, drops it into her basket with a pair of shoes, a white cabbage and a bottle of vinegar as well then entering the kitchen plunges it into the pot. And so it ends, in peace, the career of the armored vegetable called "artichoke," and presently scale by scale we undress this delight we munch the peaceful paste of its green heart.